


Watson Knows Best

by thursjournal



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1950s, Gen, sherlock is a housewife, sort of, suburban america
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursjournal/pseuds/thursjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John inhabit 1950s suburban America.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson Knows Best

**Author's Note:**

> I jokingly mentioned the concept of 1950s watson coming home to sherlock in the kitchen wearing a string of pearls, and then this happened. short one shot. steph this is your fault i hope you're happy with yourself.

John took his hat off and set his briefcase on the floor. He shrugged off his trench coat and hung it and the fedora on the rack. He sighed with the relief of a man finally home after a long day. No more patients, no more files, no more forced smiling. He looked forward to a glass of scotch by the fire and a casual stroll through the Gazette. But first, dinner. His shoes shuffled softly on the shag carpet as he made his way back towards the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, taking in the savory smell of a roast and the sight of Sherlock standing over the Formica kitchen table, a string of pearls around his lithe neck. 

“Please tell me whatever is in the oven came from the butchers.”

Sherlock looked up from a sea of beakers and flasks strewn haphazardly across the table. “Of course not, John. Have you forgotten his response to my last request? No, I obtained this particular sample from—“

John held up a warning finger, tilting his head away from the end of that sentence. “No…on second thought don’t tell me. But you can explain why you’re wearing a pearl necklace.”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock’s eyes brightened, “Detective Lestraude is having difficulties with the Maple Street Housewife murders. The ones from the paper. The last victim was missing a necklace she was known to wear which was later found in the house of her handyman. Now, when I examined the body I noted a series of red welts on the back and sides of her neck, like a necklace was pulled until it broke.” Sherlock paced across the linoleum with animated gestures. “The necklace found in the handyman’s home was intact with no repairs. I suspect that the killer broke the original necklace and planted an identical replacement to frame the handyman. Since the victim habitually wore the necklace on a daily basis but rarely cleaned it, it’s likely that it would have picked up residues from cooking and cleaning. I am conducting an experiment to create a necklace exposed to a similar environment which I can then compare to the necklace in evidence.” 

“That’s really clever,” John admitted. “But what are we going to have for dinner? Because I’m not eating whatever that is.” He threw a disdainful and slightly disgusted glance at the oven.

“I find it ridiculous that when jesting about cannibalism, most people choose the fattest person in the party. This is a fallacy because we consume the muscle or organs, but rarely the actual fat of an animal. Instead, it would be wiser to choose—“

“Sherlock,” John warned, “my appetite is quickly leaving me.”

Sherlock huffed. “Mrs. Hudson from next door brought over a casserole. She was going on about some new recipe from her Ladies Magazine.” He waived his hand in the direction of the avocado-green refrigerator. 

John tugged open the heavy door and looked with relief at the casserole dish resting on the second shelf. Mrs. Hudson’s Corningware was always a welcome sight next to the mason jar of eyeballs and the Pyrex measuring cup that was housing some kind of kidney. 

“I suppose you’ll want me to write up this housewife murder for the newspaper column, when you’ve brilliantly solved it?” John said as he dished out the casserole onto two plates.

“Well, it seems you find some perverse pleasure in spending hours pecking away at your typewriter. Just do try to keep to the facts this time.”  
John shoveled a forkful of cold casserole into his mouth. “People like to know you’re human.” He frowned at the chaos on the table. “Have you been using our turkey baster in an experiment??”

“I was out of pipettes,” he shrugged. 

“Not good, Sherlock. Don’t put that back in the drawer. What else have you been secretly using?” He glanced suspiciously at the fork in his hand.  
“I sanitize everything as part of standard laboratory procedure. Therefore there’s no reason for the utensils not to return to their previous line of service. I’m simply saving you from your illogical mental aversion.“

John set down the fork. “No. No, that’s not how it works. You tell me everything in this house you’ve used for an experiment, and it’s all going in the trash.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, “Fine. The meat cleaver, the punch bowl, three spoons – I don’t know which ones – and several items from your shoe shine kit. Do you consider the garage to be part of the house considering that it’s detached? If so, you should refrain from using your oil can as well.”

John leaned back in the chrome kitchen chair. “How about any of the bar glasses?”

Sherlock scrunched up his face in thought, “No.”

“Good” John said as he reached for a glass from the cabinet shelf. “If you need me I’ll be by the fire with a glass of whiskey and the paper definitely NOT thinking about what you did with my shoe shine kit.”


End file.
